


Benevolence

by eva_roisin



Series: They Will Lie: Stories [1]
Category: Dark Wolverine, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Assault, sniktcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:10:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eva_roisin/pseuds/eva_roisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan has been so busy thinking about the ways he and his son are alike that he hasn’t noticed their differences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benevolence

**Author's Note:**

> An earlier version of this fic was written for marvel_kink. The prompt was: “Logan fantasizing about Daken because of how he resembles his mother.”

Benevolence

Logan can’t help but catalogue all the ways they’re alike.

On the way back from Sebastian Shaw’s South Pacific hideaway, he makes his comparisons. He compiles a list. He keeps a tally. He has time to do this because Daken, who’s sitting adjacent to him in the jet, hasn’t spoken in hours.

Tactical silence: that’s just one thing they’ve got in common. Like him, Daken retreats into himself when he’s threatened or confused. It’s natural, Logan thinks, to not want to talk. In the last twenty-four hours, he’s gotten his memory back and seen his world flipped. He doesn’t know whom or what to trust, and his mind is still disordered.

But this is the thing, the thing that unsettles: Daken doesn’t seem threatened or confused or disordered. He doesn’t even seem angry. Logan wishes he were angrier—though not too angry, of course. Anger is solid and quantifiable, a real sign of presence, of life. He's certainly got reason enough to be pissed—at having been shot up with Carbonadium, for instance, or at having been left in San Francisco’s Chinatown to be picked apart by Shaw’s people. At Romulus. At Logan. At life.

Instead Daken seems to radiate apathy. He inspects his fingernails and looks out the window. Occasionally he takes a deep, audible breath. (Logan sometimes does that too. A way of relieving all that built-up tension.)

Logan has attempted to bridge the gulf between them. He tried breaking the silence hours ago. “You tired?” he said. “You want to sleep? There’s plenty of space in the back.”

Thirty seconds passed. “No,” Daken finally said.

Another time: “So, your tattoo. How . . . ?”

Daken silenced him with a cutting glance.

“Daken,” he said, just a whisper. He still wasn’t quite comfortable with the boy’s name. There were so many things he needed to explain—so much he had to lay out. He’d gone over it before when he was traveling alone, thought of all points he needed to hit, the things he had to say—just so that life might start to make sense again. Daken needs to know about him, about all of the things he’s done just to free himself from Romulus. He needs to know that, ever since learning about Daken’s existence, Logan has been fighting for _his_ freedom, too, and that he’s not going to stop until it’s accomplished.

All those things are now lost to the silence.

It’s easy for Logan to compare Daken to himself—all of the little idiosyncracies they have in common, the sighing through the nose, the impatient way they cut people off in the middle of a sentence. But when Logan compares Daken to Itsu, things get a hell of a lot muddier. He doesn’t remember Itsu all that well—that’s part of the problem. The other part of the problem, the part that catches him off guard, is that Daken is like Itsu in all of the ways that don’t matter. Or in all of the ways that shouldn’t matter but do. Itsu was so beautiful, so kind. His son has inherited her bone structure and natural grace but none of her personality. And she was artless about her beauty, almost unconscious of it. Daken trades in his; his smiles carry the promise of sex and treachery. Logan’s seen his son get what he wants, get past the most forbidding opponents without popping a claw. While Logan gets what he wants through sheer force, Daken uses force of personality.

He watches Daken sometimes when the kid isn’t looking. He just can’t help it.

In the last leg of the trip, Daken finally speaks. “That friend of yours,” he says over the roar of the engine. “Xavier.”

Logan turns to find Daken staring at him. It’s the first nearly-complete sentence his kid has said to him since they left Shaw’s.

The boy’s stare is dark and impenetrable, but the corners of his mouth turn up. “You just left him there. I can’t say that surprised me. Stranding people seems to be your forte.”

“I—I didn’t leave him,” Logan explains. Suddenly he wants to double-back. He wants to prove it. “The X-Men were on their way to pick him up when we left. But we didn’t have time to wait.”

Daken gives a small, unnerving smile. “Relax. I was only joking.”

Relax, Logan thinks. That’s not possible. It’s like envisioning a distant planet where he’s never set foot. Still, at least Daken has broken the silence—and for a joke, no less. That’s something. And it also gives Logan an excuse to look at his son. He wishes he could look at Daken more often, and for longer periods of time.

Daken catches him staring. The smile drops from his face.

Logan peers through the plane’s windshield. “How good’s your intel?”

“Hmm. We’ll see if it checks out in Miami.”

Daken has only a vague idea of where Romulus is—or so he says—so he needs to do some fact checking in the United States. After that, it should be a simple matter of tracking.

“How long before we land?” Daken asks.

 

***

 

Another similarity: Daken likes to work alone.

After they leave the plane at a small private airport and take a taxi into the city—and after Daken tips the cab driver better than he should, grins, and tells him not to spend it all in one place—he gives Logan a hard look. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “I have some phone calls to make.”

Logan’s eyes skim their surroundings. They’re in Little Havana, and the sunlight is blistering, intense. “I’m coming.”

Daken pauses for a moment and then laughs. “Consider yourself benched. For now. We’ll let you start in the second half. But right now, this is my show.”

Logan tries not to grimace. Kid’s dismissiveness bothers him. But he’s dismissive too. He adds another thing to his mental checklist.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to do violence to anybody,” Daken says. “Not without you, anyway—I wouldn’t want you to miss it. I have a few favors to call in, that’s all. I’ll be an hour. Two at the most.”

Logan has a vision of Daken holding someone’s head in the path of an oncoming train or dangling someone over a bridge. “Hell,” he says. “I don’t think so.” He wants to reach out and touch Daken, but he knows the boy will just wrench away. “This isn’t the way we do things. It’ll take both of us to pull this off. Get it out of your head that this renegade shit will get us somewhere.”

“You want us to ‘team up,’ Wolverine?” Daken says with the smallest trace of a sneer. “Right now, I work alone. It took me years to cultivate these contacts. That is, if I can still _remember_ anything about who they are and where they live.” He narrows his eyes. “You and your friend Xavier really manhandled my mind.”

“We were trying to—”

“Help me, I know.” Daken isn’t smiling anymore. “Luckily I still remember everything about myself. Who I am. All we are is our memories, right?” Now he smiles again. “I work alone. If my contacts see us together, they’ll know something’s up. Consider this a small taste of the hell you put me through in San Francisco.”

So, firm and unrelenting didn’t work. Logan decides to appeal to Daken’s sense of reason. “You’re not in any shape to go alone. You’ll still need someone to back you up. And together we can save a lot of time.”

Daken gives him a mock frown. “It’s so gratifying that you’re concerned about my wellbeing. Almost makes up for all those sad Christmas mornings. But don’t worry—I won’t take much time. And unlike you, I’ll come back. Go have a sandwich. A beer. A woman. In whatever order you wish.” He waves his hand. It’s a gesture Logan finds vaguely effeminate. And disquieting.

Daken leaves Logan standing on the curb. Instinctively, Logan puts his hand in his pocket to touch his cell phone, and Daken calls out, “Don’t call me.”

Logan knows better than to go after him, than to force the issue. If Daken has plans to leave him, he’ll run off any time he damn well pleases. If not now, then later. And if Logan protests too much now, he’ll just end up with three new puncture wounds in his chest and a boot print up his ass.

He just doesn’t want Daken to leave.

Little Havana’s warm and busy. He sits in the shade and has a sandwich. Reads a newspaper. Later, has a beer. Fidgets. Two hours turn into three. The sun tumbles out of the sky. He checks his watch. Checks his phone. Gets up and wanders around. It’s dark now. He contemplates calling. And looking. But Daken said not to. And Logan wouldn’t be able to find the kid anyway. He’s at his boy’s mercy here. Maybe he shouldn’t have relented so easily. Maybe the boy read it as a sign of weakness, not of strength.

There’s still so much he doesn’t know about Daken, and so much he wants to understand. It’s the simple, basic shit he can’t ask about, the shit he craves. What’s your favorite TV show? Sport? What were you like as a child? Ever been in love? Logan’s programming never stopped him from falling in love; he wonders if Daken is the same.

He walks around in Little Havana and concludes that Daken is playing him. Has played him. Has left him for another continent, perhaps. He has a memory. Not so long ago—well, Kitty was still around, so maybe it was a little while ago—he got roped in to subbing for someone’s class. He couldn’t remember whose. (This was his new problem; he now had so many memories of the distant past that he had a hard time of keeping track of the simple, mundane shit that happened every day.) He walked into the classroom and looked out over the kids. Took a seat at the desk. Passed out an assignment. But the kids didn’t look bored—not as he expected them to. They seemed amused and strangely energetic. And they looked like they were hiding something. He watched them work. The corners of their mouths turned up; they worked hard not to smile as they did their work. Quiet laughter. Finally one boy stood up, smiling broadly. “Mr. Logan,” he said. “Will you let us go early?”

“No.”

“But we’ve finished our work.”

He looked at them. Most of them were grinning. “Fine."

It wasn’t until he was walking around the room, straightening the desks, that he glanced over at the teacher’s desk and saw it—a sign hanging from the corner. _I am an asshole,_ it said, _and I am lying my ass off_.

At five after nine, the phone finally vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out and answers it without even checking the number.

“Get us a hotel room,” Daken says. “Preferably something nice.”

Logan can’t ignore his own relief. “What the hell happened? Where are you?”

“Not on this line,” Daken says. The phone clicks off.

Logan does as he’s told. An hour later, Daken saunters arrogantly into the hotel room where Logan has been waiting. He doesn’t even knock. Got a keycard—God knows how. He stands in the middle of the room and looks down at Logan. “Jesus. I told you to get something _nice_. We aren’t staying, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. Still, why slum even for a half an hour?”

Daken smells like sex and death and fear—someone else’s fear—and that old adrenaline fight-or-flight kick. His face is pinched in an expression of pleasurable agitation, if that’s even possible. He always seems to embody two emotional states at once.

“What’s going on?” Logan asks. “Where the hell have you been?” What the fuck did you do?

Daken takes off his jacket and lays it on the bed. Undoes the top button of his shirt. “I need a shower.” He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door quietly.

Logan thinks about rifling through his son’s jacket pockets but knows he shouldn’t; the kid would smell him on his clothes. He doubts Daken is dumb enough to leave any kind of information in his jacket anyway; he’s been doing this job for too long to make rookie mistakes. Whatever he’s got is either on his person or in his brain.

Daken emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later. The steam follows him into the room. He’s dressed, but his shirt’s unbuttoned and his hair’s wrapped up in a towel.

“Cut the crap, kid,” Logan says, rising from the bed. “Time for you to stop treating me like the reluctant virgin.”

Daken’s mouth twitches. “Calm down, old man. _Tranquilo_ , as the Cubans say.”

“Do you know where he is or not?”

“No,” Daken says, buttoning his shirt. “I don’t. But there’s something in Africa. Supposedly something big’s about to go down. And it’s got Romulus’s stench all over it.”

“Africa. Huh. How’d you figure that?”

Daken takes a step forward and takes an envelope out of his shirt pocket. Lays it on the bed in front of Logan. “There’s your plane ticket, your passport. We’re taking the redeye. Should arrive in Paris by the morning. And then we’ll fly to Algiers. Unfortunately, there are no direct flights to where we’re going. But we’re not taking your jacked puddle-hopper. I still have motion-sickness.”

Logan looks down at the papers his son has so nonchalantly placed before him. “I don’t do commercial airlines.”

Daken raises an eyebrow. “Homeland Security woes? Interpol problems? Ah, you’re so uncreative. Always relying on superhero friends to get you from one place to the next. You’re lucky you’ve got me now—I have no team. I am my own team. So in other words, it’s taken care of. I’ll even get you past the metal detectors without asking for anything in return.” Logan wonders what he’s got that Daken might ask for.

His son takes another step toward him and his eyes hold a perfect balance of benevolence and malice. He’s predatory; he’s kind. Emma said that Daken doesn’t have a consciousness, and Logan didn’t believe her. Not at the time.

He sets one hand on Logan’s shoulder. Reminiscent—perhaps deliberately—of how Logan touched him back at Shaw’s. “It’ll be okay.”

Logan thinks that this isn’t the way this is supposed to go at all. He’s the one who should be offering words of comfort. Daken’s eyes are cold (so unlike Itsu’s) and his words provide little comfort at all.

“You should shower,” Daken says. “You smell terrible.”

 

***

 

Part of the problem is that Daken doesn’t call him anything. He doesn’t address him by his name, and he calls him _dad_ or _pops_ only when making some kind of point.

Of all the fantasies Logan has ever had about Daken, he knows that this is the dumbest: He imagines that someday they’ll be close enough that he can say, _No, don’t call me Logan, call me Dad_. But that’s ridiculous. He’d never say that to Daken, not even if he’d found his long lost son teaching kindergarten in Kentucky.

 

***

On the long flight to Paris, they sit next to each other—only because they have to, Logan thinks. The plane is packed. Daken keeps his light on and reads a thick paperback. _The Portrait of a Lady._ So his kid’s a reader. Logan has read the occasional book in the past. But ever since he’s gotten his memories back, he’s had too much to do, too much to occupy his mind.

His gaze shifts to Daken. “How is that?” he ventures.

Daken glances up, annoyed. “It’s fine.” He closes the book and sets it in his lap. “I’ve read it a dozen times. I don’t know why. It’s always the same. Isabel Archer is always ruined, and it takes four hundred pages to get her there.” As if to say: if Daken were writing the narrative, Isabel Archer would be ruined on page four.

He fixes his gaze on Logan. Leans closer, his elbow on the armrest between them. “When we get there . . . what do you want to do to him?” He says it in Japanese. He’s speaking their language, in more ways than one.

“Something slow,” Logan says, also in Japanese. “But strategic. We don’t want to rush this. It’s too important to leave to chance.”

“He’ll be difficult,” Daken cedes.

“Not so difficult that we can’t work this together. We’re better than he is. And I got a few ideas. I’ll tell you when we’re alone.”

Daken goes silent. He focuses on the tray table in front of Logan. “She suffered,” he whispers.

Is it a question? Logan can’t tell.

“He needs to suffer. Twice as much. It needs to burn bright, hot, and long. It needs to send a message. Visible. Memorable.”

Christ. His son really is just like him. It’s way past comparison and contrast time now. They’re the same fucking person.

Daken leans back in his chair. “I’m tired,” he says simply. He turns off his light and closes his eyes. In minutes, his breathing is even and slow.

Logan has seen Daken unconscious before, but this time is different. The fact that the kid could wake up any time doesn’t deter Logan from looking at him. The way he looks, the way he smells—it all takes him back to Jasmine Falls, and much more vividly than ever before. The tilt of Daken’s head, his jaw-line, his delicate-looking physique, the softness of his voice, the cool way his fingers just skim whatever he touches—that’s all Itsu. It’s not like she’s here with him, no. It’s not like he has her back. It’s that Daken, without even trying, has quietly unearthed all the details he’s long forgotten. His memories are clearer now. Daken has brought them into focus.  

He shifts in his chair. He’s trying not to think, but it’s too late for that. The smell of carbon dioxide on Daken’s breath reminds him of the mornings with Itsu, of waking her up early. She didn’t like being robbed of sleep but didn’t complain when his fingers reached into her slickness, or when his mouth sought the hot damp patch between her legs. She’d groove her heels into his back and moan. He remembers how she tightened around him, how her wetness slicked his cock, how excited she got when he came inside of her. He was convinced that no one in their small village enjoyed each other the way they did. In the mornings he wouldn’t bother to wash—he’d leave the house with her smell on his hands, on his lips, on his dick, the smell she made when she came for him. He figured that no one else could smell it the way he could. He didn’t know if this was true.

And, well, now he’s done it. He’s hard. That’s just great. He’s sitting inches from his son, a son he loves more than anything, a son who’s little more than a mindless executioner, and he’s thinking about how great the kid’s long-dead, tragic mother was between the sheets. He needs to jerk off. Jesus. He deserves every bad thing that’s coming his way.

He climbs into the aisle and goes to the bathroom. Luckily it’s empty so he doesn’t have to wait. He latches the door behind him and jerks off quickly, efficiently. When he’s done he takes care to wipe up. Flushes the toilet. Washes his hands for some time and studies himself in the mirror. He has the grim, pleasurable sense of just having gotten away with something.

When he clamors back to his seat, Daken opens one eye and then turns his head away.

The stewardess brings the breakfast cart around in another hour and stops in front of their aisle. Daken’s eyes open. Logan passes him a croissant and asks him if he wants coffee.

He sits up and looks directly at the stewardess. “Smile,” he commands. She smiles. He smiles back. She’s too dense, Logan thinks, to detect his malice.

Daken pulls apart his croissant. He now seems depressed. Logan asks him if he wants to sleep some more, and he pulls away as if offended by a smell. “We’re landing soon,” Logan says.

Daken says nothing. He’s retreated back to tactical silence.

The plane lands. They grab their things, exit the plane, and wait in the terminal for the plane to Algiers to arrive. “Do you want anything?” Logan asks while they sit side by side.

Daken gives a disgusted sigh. He tilts his hat forward. Sulks.

Logan decides not to ask. He puts his hat on. Gets up and looks around. Grabs a cup of coffee and checks his watch. Their plane isn’t slotted to land for another two hours. Time that would be better spent talking. He wishes his son would let him talk to him, let him explain things. Let him talk about a future, about the future that lies beyond killing Romulus. You have a future, kid, Logan wants to say. But he’s ill, Logan thinks. He needs help. They shouldn’t be doing this. Charles is right; torturing somebody to death is no way to reconcile with your sick-minded kid.

Logan’s stomach feels sour. He disposes of his coffee and knows he needs to go back to Daken and call this off. But he doesn’t know what to say. And then he’ll lose Daken altogether—and sooner than he thought.

He decides to go to the bathroom to take a piss. He takes off his hat. He’s checking the stalls for any suspicious assholes when he hears light, quick footsteps behind him. He turns just slightly (doesn’t have a chance to react) and just catches Daken’s scent. Then Daken’s closing in on him, his hand reaching for Logan’s throat.

Daken takes him by the throat and the arm and pushes him into the nearest stall. The door slams behind them and then bounces open. Daken pins him against the wall behind the toilet, his hand clamping down on his neck. Then he kisses Logan so hard that their teeth bump. He inhales and forces his tongue into Logan’s mouth.

The toilet, triggered by the motion detector, starts to flush.

Logan comes back to himself, realizes what just happened. Daken has him pinned to the wall. He sets his hands on Daken’s shoulders and pushes him away, hard. The kid stumbles backward and out of the stall. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins. Then he approaches again, this time closing and latching the door behind him.

“Daken—”

“You think I didn’t know?” Daken hisses. His eyes are dull and empty, but he smiles. “You think I didn’t smell your dried cum all morning? You think I didn’t feel what you’re feeling from the first day? Every time you look at me you’re wondering how it would feel to fuck me.” He reaches forward and cups Logan’s crotch.

Logan grabs Daken’s hand and pushes him away again. Daken’s back hits the stall door with a slight thump. “You’re sick,” Logan says.

“If I’m the sick one, what does that make you?”

Logan reaches out and grabs Daken by the throat, but he can’t ignore the fact that his cock twitches. Daken starts to laugh.

“This is it,” he whispers. “The whole reason for this trip, isn’t it. Not Romulus. Not revenge. Not _mother_. This.”

Logan lets go of Daken, closes his eyes. “Shit, that’s not—” But it is. It’s the most accurate summary of this situation he can think of. And he can’t lie. Daken will smell his lie as surely as he smelled everything else.

“Well, that’s fine,” Daken says, straightening his shirt. “But you don’t get to look at me for free.” Then, so suddenly that Logan wonders how it happened, Daken punches him in the mouth. Thankfully, he doesn’t pop his claws.

Logan pushes his way through the pain and ignores the fact that a few of his teeth are loose. He looks up at Daken. Seethes. He’s going to throttle the kid, hit him back. But then, something changes. Logan feels his breath leave his body. He knees buckle.

Daken lurches forward again. But now his advances are soft. Less menacing. He touches Logan’s face, his shoulder, with tenderness. Kisses him again. This time he’s gentle. His tongue slides past Logan’s bloody teeth, his thumbs run along his smarting jaw. He pulls his mouth away from Logan’s and cups the back of Logan’s head.

Logan sighs into Daken’s shoulder. He can feel the prickle of tears in his eyes. He squeezes his son. Feels goddamn grateful. He wants to believe that perhaps he misread Daken; the boy is compassionate, almost. Benevolent. He wants to stay here forever. I love you, kid, he wants to say. I always did. You were a part of her and you’re beautiful . . .

Daken kisses him again.

Logan’s mind slips away. He knows he should shut this down—this isn’t what he wants, he thinks, not at all—but he feels himself pulled under. By desire. By love. Yes, love. He loves Daken hard. He wishes he could blame Daken for the way he feels right now, but this is all him. This fucked-upness is a shitstorm of perfect bliss. For Daken this might be about dominance, but for Logan this is the crux of his entire life. This is about getting close to the one person who means the most—and in this moment, he doesn’t care how closeness is accomplished.

Daken nudges his thigh between Logan’s legs. Pushes against him harder. Drops his hand and slides it along Logan’s hipbone. Slips his fingers down his pants. His fingers curl when he reaches Logan’s pubic hair.

Logan moans softly and clutches Daken to him. He’s not thinking of the wrongness of this anymore; he’s so hard it hurts. It’ll take little prompting for him to come right in his pants, and there’s nothing he can do about it. (Is it wrong if there’s nothing he can do about it? Is it wrong if they both want this?) Daken rubs his thigh against Logan’s crotch but doesn’t stop kissing him. Logan shudders in anticipation of his impending orgasm. He doesn’t know whose mouth is whose anymore; it’s all saliva and faint traces of blood.

And then Daken stops suddenly. No warning. Pulls back. Logan’s cock aches—but he feels the fog of desire and love and compassion dissipate and all at once he’s hit with shame and guilt and self-hatred.

“Shame,” Daken says. He glances down at Logan’s erection. “Take care of that by yourself. Unless you’re good enough to will that away, and somehow I doubt it.” He smiles, unlatches the stall door and lets it swing open as he leaves Logan in the worst position imaginable—an undeniable act of cruel benevolence.

Logan latches the door and leans against the metal. Closes his eyes. This wasn’t about closeness. This wasn’t even about dominance and submission. This was about leverage. This was about Daken having something else to hang over his father’s head. You touched me. You wanted me. I’ll tell people. You’ll let me do what I want.

Daken’s right. He wishes he were strong enough to will away his erection, but he’s not.

Daken meets him outside of the bathroom, and he knows that the kid can smell his sour cum and the salt of his tears. The boy’s eyes glint under the fluorescent lights.

They sit together and wait for the plane. Logan crosses his legs and sniffs. He steals a glance at Daken, who looks delicate and furious and very, very pleased with himself.

Daken sits back in his chair, chin tilted toward the ceiling. He doesn’t look at Logan. “I killed my family when I was ten. They certainly didn’t do anything to deserve that. They were anyone’s definition of a good family.” He gives Logan a pointed glance. “Working with you to bring down Romulus? I can do that. But as far as you and I go?” He pushes his hat down again so that it covers his eyes. Sighs in satisfaction or contemplation—Logan can’t tell.

Logan’s not willing to give up so easily, but he knows that this round belongs to Daken. I’m not afraid of you, he thinks, but before he has the chance to say anything the plane arrives, descending from the sky, reflecting the light from the not-so-distant late morning sun.

 


End file.
